‘John is weak!’ he spat. ‘I’m Jack! We’re not one and the same. Not at all! Two very different animals, doctor, and believing otherwise is a dangerous assumption.’
I decided to change tack. Keep him off balance if I could.
‘Why do you identify with Jack?’ I needled. ‘What is it about him you admire so much that you have to copy him? Aren’t you creative enough to be an original?’
He laughed, his tone soft, almost gentle. ‘Don’t demean yourself, or me, with such obvious tactics. I’m not emulating him… I am him. Have always been him.’
I closed my eyes, forcing myself to concentrate on his vocal patterns. The digitised voice robbed me of the fine nuances of tone that often gave clues to a person’s true feelings. But I still had tempo, pitch and some inflection in there if I listened hard enough.
‘When we last spoke, you said it had to be me, John.’ I deliberately didn’t call him Jack. ‘Why me?’
‘It has to be you who unlocks my story.’ The words were said almost lovingly.
‘Tell me your story, then. I’m listening.’
‘That would be too easy, wouldn’t it? I want you to work for it this time.’
‘This time? Have you spoken to me before?’ A brief hesitation said I was right.
‘You have to share it with me this time.’ He made it sound almost sexual.
‘You have no one, do you, John?’
I softened my tone to match his, speaking quietly, gently.
‘No one else to share things with. No woman in your life.’ I could hear his breathing. He stayed silent, so I pressed further. ‘You’ve always been lonely, haven’t you? Feeling out of step with everyone else? Even as a child, John, you never fit in, did you?’
I concentrated harder and could sense his breathing quicken a little.
‘But I have you now,’ he said, quietly, confirming I was right.
I took the advantage before he regained his footing.
‘Is that why you kill women, John, because they treated you so badly? Do you hate them all or just your mother?’
Did I hear his sharp intake of breath, or imagine it? I wasn’t sure, but I gave him silence to see what reaction I’d get. He paused for only a heartbeat.
‘I’m not in therapy, doctor.’
His voice wasn’t as strong. I’d punctured his defences, if only slightly. But it was a start. The metallic voice grated down the phone as he recovered himself.
‘I admire your tactics, but don’t waste our time like this–’
‘Okay then,’ I interrupted. ‘Instead, tell me why you’re being so inconsistent?’
‘Inconsistent?’ he sounded irritated.
‘You didn’t send me a picture from Polly’s café. That’s very sloppy, John. For someone trying to be so meticulous.’
I chose the word ‘trying’ deliberately, to goad a response.
‘I had no time.’ He was aggravated. ‘The trucker arrived earlier than usual. I had to leave. I’ll make it up to you next time – I promise. I hope you’re looking forward to it? Perhaps I’ll give you a present as a symbol of our bond? A special gift. From me to you.’
I decided to change my questioning to try to get some answers.
‘The Laundy blades are a nice touch, John. Where did you find those?’
‘They’re mine. I’ve had them for over a hundred years. They worked so well on the Victorian whores, I brought them out again.’
‘These women aren’t all whores,’ I said, prodding him. ‘That’s another inconsistency.’
He laughed. ‘All women are whores. At least prostitutes are more honest about it.’
I changed tack again, wanting to keep him off balance with different questions. Not allow him to control the conversation. He liked being in control. I wanted to take that from him.
‘It must be frustrating, John? Wanting to tell your story, but getting no attention from the media? All your hard work and not a mention in the news. Victorian Jack had much more coverage, even a hundred years ago. John…?’
He’d hung up.
I sat in the darkness, suddenly feeling vulnerable even inside my locked car. As I pulled out onto the empty road, my heart was hammering and my insides felt like they were trembling.
In an automatic reflex, I switched on the radio. I needed to feel less alone in the dark, with the remnants of ‘Jack’s’ toxic voice filling my safe space.
The Shipping Forecast was on.
I listened to the velvet tones of the male voice, reciting in rhythmic poetry the familiar roll call: “Cromarty, Forth, Tyne and Humber.”
Reassuringly solid. Banishing mythical monsters and grounding me back into the real world.
Memories from childhood of Mamma kneading pasta dough in the warmth of the kitchen on Sunday evening. Dad sitting in the armchair by the fire, polishing his shoes over newspaper on the floor, ready for work on Monday morning.
“Viking, Forties, Fisher and Bailey.”
It soothed my nerves. No room here for monsters and murderers. Cosy. Comforting. Protecting me from the tormented seas inside Jack’s psyche and bringing me back to safe harbour.
26 September
Briefing room, Fordley Police Station
The cell site data showed that Jack’s last call to me on my drive down the A1 had pinged from a mast close to the football ground in Newcastle. Confirming – in my mind at least – that it had been Jack at the stadium that night.
I’d listened as the telephony team briefed everyone on their findings so far. As usual, it appeared Jack had used a burner phone to make that call. Probably disposing of it straight afterwards, but at least it gave the team a lead.
‘Northumbria Police sent us the CCTV footage from the stadium,’ Tony was saying, from his seat on the front row. ‘It shows a figure walking through the stadium at various points. He seemed to know where the cameras were though, and made sure he obscured his face with a baseball cap pulled down low.’ He flicked through his notes.
‘We’ve compared those images with the ones taken around Hanbury Street on the night of Anne’s murder. Both figures are the same height and build, and gait analysis suggests they both move with the same bearing and posture. So there’s a high probability it’s the same individual.’
‘Nice one, Tony,’ Callum said.
Callum had already told me that all the data coming in had been collated and put into the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. Poignantly, the HOLMES computer had been developed after the Yorkshire Ripper enquiry – the irony of which wasn’t lost on anyone.
During that enquiry back in the eighties, handling the overwhelming mass of information had presented the police with some serious challenges. All the information had been kept on index cards and the weight of evidence had literally weakened the floor of Millgarth Police Station.
Since then, Sherlock’s computerised namesake now processed all the information, to make sure vital links and clues weren’t overlooked. The actions generated were passed to the growing number of officers in the major incident rooms, which now occupied two floors of Fordley nick. The police knew just about everything possible to know about Jack, except his real name, address and postcode.
I sat and made notes as Callum went through everything to date.
On the whiteboard, photos of Anne had joined the others. The belongings she’d carried that morning had been laid out at her feet, just as Victorian Jack had done with Annie Chapman. But instead of two combs and a piece of muslin, our victim bizarrely had some loose change, a carton of milk and a packet of cigarettes.
‘The pathologist’s report confirms it’s the same weapon used in the other murders,’ Callum was saying. ‘We’ve also got more trace fibres that they believe have come from the killer’s clothing, and hair strands with follicles. Which means we’ve now got his blood group and DNA. He isn’t in the system, but we can use it for a match if we get a suspect going forward. Anne had also been wearing two rings like these when she left the flat
.’ Callum pointed to a picture of two thin gold bands. ‘But they were missing when the body was found, just like Annie Chapman, whose rings were kept by her killer.’
He pointed to the gory post-mortem photographs on the board.
‘Along with all the other injuries listed in the post-mortem report, the pathologist also confirmed Anne’s uterus was missing.’ He turned back to the team. ‘Just like Jack the Ripper’s MO in 1888.’
‘If he’s cut her up and carried away her uterus, he must’ve been covered in blood,’ said Beth. ‘How could he exit the ginnel and walk through the street into town without attracting attention?’
‘The same question they asked in 1888,’ I said.
‘Could’ve changed clothing?’ Shah said. ‘He’s carrying a backpack on the CCTV footage.’
‘Possibly,’ Callum said. ‘We now know he’s got the uterus in there, along with different clothing perhaps. We need to trace his potential route to see where he might have gone to change – if that’s what he did.’
Beth shuffled the paperwork on her knee.
‘No sign of him after the ginnel,’ she said. ‘Checking CCTV to see if we can pick him up in different clothes.’
‘Update on the DNA testing,’ Heslopp said. ‘Officers going door to door to take mouth swabs. Jo estimates he’s aged between twenty-eight and thirty-eight, so we’ve broadened it to take samples from males aged between twenty-five and forty to give us a margin. Just over five thousand tests in so far. Cards being left if people aren’t at home, inviting them to attend clinics. Obviously it’s voluntary but anyone refusing will be implicated and we’ll take another look.’
‘Okay,’ Callum said, nodding in my direction. ‘Jo?’
‘Jack’s call gave me a few interesting bits of info. He says he wants his story told and he seems to think I should be the one to tell it, so that’s why he’s involving me. He also implied he’s tried to speak to me before, but I’m pretty sure I’ve not seen him as a patient, at least not in a criminal context.’
‘So what then?’ Ian asked.
‘Maybe a witness I’ve interviewed or a patient who at the time had nothing to do with a criminal case at all,’ I said. ‘In a ward or clinical setting. I’ll keep working through it – see if I can come up with a name.’
‘He also told Jo that he owned the Laundy blades,’ Callum added. ‘So although we didn’t find any leads with those first time round, we need to go back to the drawing board. Antique shops, auction sites, collectors, anywhere someone might pick them up. Also look back at robberies where anything like that might be listed as unrecovered.’ He raked his hand through his hair again. ‘The next event is set for the thirtieth. Four days from now.’ He turned to me. ‘What can you tell us about the next one, Jo?’
‘Thirtieth September 1888. Prostitutes Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes are murdered forty-five minutes apart in what’s become known as the “double event”. Stride’s body was found at 1am in Dutfields Yard along Berner Street behind the International Working Men’s Club, which was frequented by Polish and Russian immigrants. Her throat was cut but no other injuries sustained, and the theory is the Ripper was disturbed and couldn’t carry out the usual mutilations.’
I walked over to the flip chart where I’d written up the main facts.
‘During the chaos surrounding that discovery, the murderer slipped away unnoticed and went to Mitre Square – about twelve minutes’ walk away. Here he murdered Catherine Eddowes, whose body was discovered at 1.45am. It’s believed she was killed at about 1.30am. Her body was extensively mutilated.’
I held up the printed sheets that had been handed out. ‘You’ve all got copies of the post-mortem reports from the time and photographs of the bodies. But to summarise: Catherine Eddowes was eviscerated. Like the others, she was rendered unconscious by strangulation prior to being mutilated, preventing her from screaming. Death was caused by haemorrhage from severing the carotid artery. She was opened from breastbone to groin and her intestines were lifted out and placed over her right shoulder.’
I paused to take a sip of water, trying to keep this a professional litany. ‘Jack also mutilated the face this time. Cutting off her nose and slitting her eyelids and cheeks. There are lots of theories as to why he did that. Knowing what we do now about serial killers, it shows an increased confidence and escalation in brutality. The theory suggests he was attempting to remove her face. But I suppose we’ll never know for sure now.’
Finally, Callum broke the silence in the room as I finished by walking over to the area map.
‘So far, there are no matches to any of the historical place names, but we know how creative Jack can be. HOLMES hasn’t made any connections yet either. So unlike the last one, we don’t have an area to stake out. We’ve been allocated extra man power and we’ve got vice issuing the usual warnings to all the working girls but, as we know, he’s not restricting himself to prostitutes.’
‘So he could literally strike anywhere?’ Beth said, echoing the frustration of everyone on the team.
Callum raked his fingers through his hair. ‘Potentially, yes. But although we don’t have any location names that match, we’ll have plain-clothed officers on the streets around the red light district. Also, we’ll have surveillance set-up along the main routes in and out of town. We’re also getting observation posts put on working men’s clubs.’
A knock on the door paused proceedings. Callum ushered in a man I hadn’t seen before.
‘Right on cue,’ Callum said. ‘This is Professor Astley from Liverpool University. As we were just saying, Jack’s killing ground could be just about anywhere this time, and he might not stick to the city centre. With Polly, he went to the edge of Fordley, so there’s that possibility again and we haven’t got the resources to cover all county borders. Professor Astley might be able to help us out. He specialises in geographic profiling, which is why we’ve asked for his input on this.’
While Callum introduced the team, Tony set up the professor’s laptop and pulled down the projector screen. Callum had said that after our conversation he’d contacted a spatial profiler, but I didn’t know they’d engaged one or what the man might have found. I supposed I was going to hear it now along with everyone else.
‘If psychological profiling is the “who”,’ Astley began, flicking up the first slide in what was obviously a well-rehearsed presentation, ‘then geographic profiling is the “where”.’ He acknowledged my presence with a slight nod. ‘So Doctor McCready’s field and my own complement each other.’
Subtext: Relax, I’m not here to tread on your toes.
‘Geographic profiling is an investigative tool that focuses on the geography of the crime and was developed in response to solving serial offences. The journeys offenders take determine the spatial range of criminal activity,’ he continued. ‘These areas are the predator’s comfort zone, and by mapping the murder sites, we can assess with a fair degree of accuracy the area in which an offender lives. However, there is also a buffer zone an offender will avoid too close to home, to avoid identification.’
‘So they don’t shit on their own doorstep?’ Tony quipped, causing a ripple of laughter around the room.
Astley never looked away from his slides. ‘Hmm, indeed,’ he said, without humour.
‘Our offender is copying the crimes of a historic series,’ Heslopp said, diplomatically avoiding any mention of Jack the Ripper. It was something we wanted to keep out of the press for as long as possible. ‘He’s not choosing these sites at random, so will this still apply?’
Astley adjusted his glasses as he considered the question. ‘It will have a bearing on the analysis, but we’ve input that into the computer algorithm to account for the variables.’
Heslopp looked like he wished he hadn’t asked.
‘In cases where the site of the offence is dictated by considerations other than free choice, the offender will often locate himself close to his base of operation,’ Astley said. ‘For e
xample, terrorists targeting a strategic objective will recce the area and might rent rooms nearby, embedding themselves into the local area and thereby creating a comfort zone.’
He paused, and as there were no questions, continued, ‘The criminal geographic targeting software, or CGT, analyses the geographic coordinates and produces a 3D probability surface or colour map that shows the most likely area of the offender’s home or search base.’
Astley turned to his laptop and began to call up the image he’d programmed. Every eye in the room was glued to the screen in anticipation, just as the door opened and Hoyle and Taylor-Caine walked in.
Astley’s hand hovered over the ‘enter’ key.
Chief Superintendent Hoyle glanced at me with an expression of undisguised distaste, then walked into the centre of the room. Taylor-Caine stood beside Callum, but her eyes stayed on me.
‘I need to have word with the team,’ Hoyle said, to no one in particular.
‘Yes, sir,’ Callum said, stepping back slightly to give Hoyle centre stage.
‘But not in the presence of unauthorised personnel.’ Hoyle looked directly at me and paused for dramatic effect.
For a moment, I considered being a hard ass and staying put. Playing dumb and making him spell it out. But the desire to not put Callum’s head even further in the noose won out and I slipped off my perch on the edge of the desk and grabbed my briefcase as I headed for the door. I wanted to say something, but couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t have sounded petty in that moment.
Taylor-Caine, on the other hand, had no such qualms.
‘Best leave it to the professionals.’ She didn’t even try to hide the smirk that pulled at the corner of her mouth.
The team shuffled in collective discomfort and the room felt suddenly very still. Beth jumped up to get the door for me and shot me a sympathetic look and a regretful half-smile.
I walked down the corridor, feeling my face burn with embarrassment. Resisting the urge to barge back into the room and wipe that smug expression off Taylor-Caine’s face with the back of my hand. My stomach was in knots and I felt sick on a cocktail of humiliation and resentment.
The Murder Mile Page 18